


Toward The Within

by vanishing_time



Category: House M.D.
Genre: F/M, Gender or Sex Swap, M/M, Masturbation, Mirror Sex, Post-Infarction, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-22 12:38:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6079629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanishing_time/pseuds/vanishing_time
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your fantasies can become really vivid if you stare into the mirror for too long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Toward The Within

**Author's Note:**

  * For [karaokegal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/karaokegal/gifts).



> Many thanks to [Maikanna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Maikanna) for the beta! :)

**_Autogynephilia_ ** _/ˌɔːtoʊˌɡaɪnəˈfɪliə/; from Greek αὐτό- ("self"), γυνή ("woman") and φιλία ("love") -- "love of oneself as a woman": "a man's paraphilic tendency to be sexually aroused by the thought or image of himself as a woman."_

 

Usually, the mirror doesn’t lie.

Almost naked, naked between crotch and knees, jeans pooling around his calves, eyes regarding the changes. A wince of pain as he relocates his weight for a moment, agony screaming, knives pushing in, still not used to it, still fresh, still new, still raw.

He’s looking at himself.

How long has it been?

He gasps for air, the sweat breaking through his pores smells of salt.

 _Almost a year,_ he thinks, his mind methodizing the data. Numbers, formulas, memories of the medical record, the colour of the ink. A graphicon of chemical levels, the listing of a blood test panel, red zigzags on squared paper.

There are days when he just doesn't dare to look at it. Days when he needs to gather his willpower to force his gaze downwards.

Not looking at it now either.

How old is he?

His hair got grayer. Glistening of white strands in the half sunlight. Orange light, setting sun, shadows of the grids of the balcony. Hair grayer, thinner.

 _Forty,_ he thinks.

Freshly carved creases in his brow, the misery doesn't give a shit about propriety of appearance. More horizontal lines on his forehead. Eyebrows drawn down, also graying, wrinkled skin between them. The paint of light is warm, and he feels warmth on the outside, the heat of humiliation on the inside, the burning of anger, the scorching of impotence. The fever of inertia that keeps creeping in his guts, in his throat, in his clenched fist.

Living with a traitor he hates, a betrayer he must embrace. An impostor. Forced inside a flesh prison, bone and skull cage.

He regards his new face, his traitor body, still not used to it, even though he looks in the mirror every day.

Every goddamn morning.

Yet another evening.

_Is there no way out of the body?_

One hand moving upwards on his skin. Fingernails scratching his jaw, his Adam’s apple, his throat. Elegant bridges of tendons, the tip of his left forefinger diving gently into the hollow of his throat. It’s almost pretty, even though the curves of the human anatomy never fascinated him. At least, not in an aesthetic way.

Unless he was in love.

Then, he could spend hours, watching, noticing, analyzing the details. Taking pleasure in the texture, the colours, the tiny pores.

Fingertips gently slide into the soft, rounded shadow, pressing, pressing. Suprasternal notch. Fossa jugularis sternalis. He briefly checks his aorta with the ingrained reflex of years, decades of medical studies behind him now. Brief noting of the lack of prominent pulse, no sign of aneurysm. Pressing harder until it feels like choking.

He abruptly moves his hand to tear open the buttons of his shirt, suddenly unbearable pressure on his chest, not in his throat.

He watches his heaving, revealed, lean chest wheezing, his hand slightly trembles as he clenches his cane, his new limb, his pathetic, new aid. Oh, he’s used to it by now. His palm took its shape, calluses blooming along its wooden arch, like it always belonged there.

Yet it feels foreign, like an intruder. The opposite of a phantom limb.

God, how he hates it. How he needs it.

His gaze wanders downwards, and stops at his crotch, stoically observing the outline of his genitals through the thin material of his boxers.

Sometimes he still thinks of her when he touches himself.

At least when he is capable of getting turned on.

At least when he doesn’t feel like screaming.

He's staring in the mirror, not at the man he sees in it, but darts his eyes into the negative depth of the room, to wander to the bed. Tangled sheets, also glowing bright peach, more orange now, cold despite their warm colors, too cold.

He used to sleep on the left side.

Now he has the whole thing for his own.

From time to time he still hallucinates her scent, among the wrinkles of a blanket, over the artificial filling of the pillow. Sometimes he lies on his side, awake, imagining the shape of her body beneath the blanket. Once in a while he forms her shape out of the pillows.

Sometimes he sneaks into the bathroom to get a taste of her scent. There’s a small bottle she forgot there, a small memory he kept for himself.

_Is there no way out of the mind?_

Without thinking he looks at the deformity, the scar in his thigh where muscle used to be. Where he used to be. His personality. His ability. His health. His love. His life.

He couldn't care less about how it looks, if only it didn't hurt. Yet the ugliness of it is so enticing, so mesmerizing, manifesting all he has lost, and all that he used to be. The hideousness of it. The ridges of the tissue, the imperfection of the discoloured skin, the shadows in the mutilated muscle. It’s as hilariously disgusting as he feels himself. Pathetic. Lonely.

He’s used to being alone by now. The nights seem so endless as he’s floating high on the cloud of a handful of pills, sometimes combined with alcohol, sometimes spiced with weed, each way delicious.

"Hey, you idiot."

Startled by a gentle, gentle voice, a hand covering his own hand.

He looks up.

Young. Thirty-three.

A savior. A redeemer.

Wilson’s heat is warm behind him. Slender form, square shoulders. So calming. So otherworldly sweet. Gentle puffs of breath on his neck, and his eyes are closing.

Wilson's voice is tender, like that of an ethereal being.

"Look at me…"

There's pleading, begging in his voice, and he almost feels sorry for him. Arms are clasping his waist, so confusing, so comforting, so… so home.

He looks up to watch themselves. Wilson’s face above his shoulder, a slight smile spreading on his lips, brows furrowed by worrying and caring.

Wilson says stupid soothing reassuring things to him. He always does that nowadays.

He sighs, deeply, deeply from the pit of his lungs. He’s floating, trembling, helpless exhaustion tearing his brain.

_Don't bury yourself._

Transformed into something else.

_You’re beautiful._

He lets Wilson’s heat fill him. He lets his gentleness, his caring cleanse him, he lets his affection heal him.

Clouds of warm breath on his nape.

_I always thought you were beautiful…_

He feels his breathing becoming shallow, the air strains his lungs inside his ribcage, red-white sparks in his chest, jolting through his stomach as Wilson’s hands slowly slide along his skin, igniting sparkles along his fingerprints. Liquid warmth flowing and pooling in his groin.

He looks in the mirror. Intoxicating, mesmerizing, hypnotizing brown eyes sparkle in the orange light.

He’s not looking at himself. He's looking at what he can see of Wilson’s body. His head. Shoulders, side of hips, outlines of long legs, forearms, protruding and pulsating veins, the hair standing on end. Goosebumps. Hands enveloping his exposed pectorals.

He's not the piece of art anymore, the one that is admired, the one solace is took in. Now he’s just the decoration to Wilson's performance. And it’s right, it’s all right.

Wilson is so carefree as he's performing his play. Seeming like a mating ritual. He finds himself drawn into Wilson's eagerness, Wilson's desire. Wilson’s arms are tensing, the muscles are rising and retreating with each movement, fingers spreading to cover as much surface as they can, knuckles disappearing beneath tendons, spreading, curving, fingertips pressing and releasing, drawing shadows on his body as they dig into him. He’s listening to the soft friction of skin on skin, watching Wilson in trance as he ducks his head down to kiss his neck, his dark hair shining with golden luminosity. Wilson claps him tight, his lips are on his shoulder now, his eyes closed, upper lip glistening, nostrils slightly dilating in a slow, dizzy inhalation.

Wilson is observing him. Wilson is touching him. Wilson is tasting his smell…

A sudden, unexplainable ache in his chest makes him gasp, and the arms tighten around him, under his ribs, across his chest, and he leans back into the embrace, into the damp little breaths on his nape, into Wilson's slender form, his strength, and Wilson turns his head to kiss his neck, cheekbones protruding as those lips part, and a tongue flicks out to taste the vapour of his skin. The pounding of a heart on his back, just as loud and fast as his own. Hair tickling his ears.

He’s being worshipped, and it makes his heart ache.

He turns, wanting--

 

_Time destroys everything._

 

A swirl of vortex, and he’s alone again.

He’s panting.

_Wilson…_

He thinks he can still smell Wilson’s scent.

Gaze wandering over himself, not thinking of anything for a few moments.

Reaching for a little barrel on the nightstand, he twists out a stick.

Raspberry-scented, vivid purplish-pink shade -- Twilight Sparkle, or a similarly stupid name, smelling like candy, tasting like chemicals, grease and artificial aroma.

The touch of lipstick, carefully applied, smoothed over the outlines of his lips. Over the edges. His lips are thin, but the colour makes them look… delicious. Shiny. Like frosting on a trashy Valentine’s day cake. Like a rose cut in half. Like the crotch of a woman.

He wonders whether Wilson would kiss him like this.

The mirror is smooth and cool as he presses his mouth against it. Pulling back, he’s watching the mark he left.

Perhaps Wilson would kiss him like this, if he was drunk enough, if he felt silly and adventurous.

Tongue sneaking out, the tip of it brushing over the tiny lines of the imprint.

Yeah, Wilson would smirk at him with an inebriated smile, telling him he’s crazy, but he’d press his open mouth to his nevertheless, smearing the patch of colours between them.

He imagines Wilson’s tongue plunging deep into his mouth, tasting of makeup and whisky.

Wilson would look lovely with smudged, shiny claret-red around his lips.

(Every now and then he wants to sink his teeth into them. Into the tiny peak of Wilson’s pointed upper lip. Pull on his fleshy lower lip with teeth.)

No, Wilson wouldn’t be girly. Anything but girly. It would merely highlight his features. His deep, deep brown eyes, dark like a red velvet lava cake, like molten coffee, like grinded chocolate. Mischievous. Glistening. Flirting.

Ridiculously sweet eyebrows. Cheekbones sharp enough to cut himself on them.

Oh, how those cheekbones could taste...

Mouth opening, he’s pushing the flat of his tongue against the mirror, licking over his own mark once again, the surface smooth like Wilson's teeth would be, cold like unabashed love.

Looking into his own eyes. Cold. The melting glaciers of Antarctica. Wilson said it, once, when they were young, and very, very drunk. Wilson said his eyes reminded him of the Earth seen from outer space. Of a snow globe. Of an azure lake. He said he wanted to dive into them, immerse himself under.

Ever such a romantic.

(They should have kissed then.)

He told that to Stacy, and she smiled.

He dreamt about Wilson that night.

If he had faith, he’d think that God’s eyes probably look like this. He could be staring into God’s eyes, radially pulsating dark blue lines in light blue irises. Pupils dilated, like wanting to swallow the universe. Eyes. Collecting light. Regulating its intensity through a diaphragm. Forming an image out of electrical signals. Complex neural pathways, optic nerve, visual cortex. He wants to jump headlong into his own pupils. A whole universe inside there.

Wilson has faith.

Tongue-kissing his reflection, open-mouthed, his reflection kissing him back. God kissing him back.

_Wilson…_

His face doesn't seem like his own anymore, twisting, contorting like on an acid trip, a grotesque reminder that this body is just a meat sack.

Smudged lines on the mirror, fingerprints, a millimeter of space between real and reflected nails, the thinness of the glass, his fingertips not reaching those of his alter ego standing in front of him, grinning at him with hypnotizing blue irises, obscene pink lips.

 _Wilson,_ he thinks as he’s looking at himself, watching his eyes darken to brown.

Wilson’s faithfulness towards him.

His reflection could hit him in the face.

Wilson would kiss him if he were a woman. If one of them was a woman.

Maybe even if they were both women.

He wonders how it would feel like to actually be female.

No, more precisely, how it would feel to possess a female body.

He looks into the mirror. Somehow it’s easy to imagine himself, transformed by another X chromosome. Hair longer and thicker. Hips wider, rounder. The scar would be too conspicuous on his otherwise flawless skin. On _her_ skin. Hairless, long thighs, curved hips, narrower shoulders, slightly, just slightly more body fat. He wonders if his calves would look pretty in heels. He wonders if he could walk properly. If he was a woman, maybe he would dare to show his legs off. Or maybe he wouldn’t. But his legs would be long and shapely and strong in miniskirt.

He touches his thighs, avoiding the scar, always avoiding the scar. Tracing the outlines.

Would _she_ have different destiny?

Pushing his finger into his flesh until he yelps, and his whole leg is burned in flames.

Rage, undefined, formless anger.

Tears are falling, blurring his vision, and through the dimness his features are different. Men would swoon over her blue eyes. He wonders how his agony would reflect in a woman’s eyes. He wonders whether Stacy would like her, would want to be friends with her.

He slides a finger around a nipple. He wonders how it would feel like to have breasts. Subcutaneous fat, network of ducts and lobules, clusters of alveoli, he lists to himself, gasping as he pinches his nipples, nipples that would be sensitive, perhaps even more so if he were a woman, areola slightly darker, slightly larger, firm glands and soft tissue under the skin as she runs her palms over them.

As a man runs his palms over them.

If he had a woman’s body, then Wilson would make love to him.

His fingers pinching his nipples that sting with sudden lust at the thought, a desire he hasn’t felt for a while.

Then there would be no fight for dominance. No worries over social and existential prejudices. No fight over who penetrates whom, no fear of being humiliated. No questioning of the biology of the act, no questioning of roles.

Wilson would simply take him.

The only things to be decided would be the method, the atmosphere, the circumstances.

Wilson probably would take him out to dinner. It would be the same, but not the same as these dinners are nowadays. They would talk about the same topics, would have the same jokes, same verbal teasing, but Wilson would be more… physical. He’d flirt with him all night, lightly toucing his knee under the table. He’d help him out of the car, help him out of the coat, give him something to drink. He’d lay him down to give him a massage, all the while soppy music plays in the background. He’d drink champagne from his naked stomach and laugh.

He would tell whether he wanted to be ridden. Or if he wanted to fuck from behind, his kisses damp on his nape, his hands firm on his breasts. Or he would simply lie between his legs, sweating, panting, hair mussled, cheeks flushed in arousal, locking his blackened gaze into his as he’s pushing in, his pretty, boyish features twisted into a grimace of pleasure--

Watching the outlines. Pushing his underwear down to his calves. Freeing himself.

But in the end, Wilson would take him. No questioning of the act.

He’s watching his body responding, his pupils dilating, his chest heaving.

Yes. Wilson would kneel in front of him, in front of _her,_  push him onto the edge of the bed, smelling him through the fabric of his panties. Wilson would shove his thighs apart, pulling them over his shoulders and diving between them, breathing hot on his skin, and he wonders how that would feel like, how he would thrust against Wilson's eager, hot, willing little mouth, pull him closer by his nape, but it wouldn't feel the same like it would feel now--

As he looks at his erection, he’s abruptly reminded that he’s actually male, and for a split nanosecond he almost feels disappointed; but he keeps watching the droplets gathering at the tip of his cock at the thought of Wilson going down on his female body.

Reaching down with a thumb, smearing, teasing, caressing. He lets a groan escape him.

He would be so fucking wet for Wilson, and Wilson would go crazy for it, madly turned on by his female scent. Wilson would kiss his thighs, trembling to hold himself back, gently touching the scars. He’d probably still have scars, but Wilson would love them and worship him nevertheless; yes, he’d kiss his scars, he’d lap at the skin of his inner thighs. Wilson would gently spread his labia with his lips, he would lick his way between them, up and down, lapping at his clit, the tip of his tongue drawing tiny circles on it before sucking, pushing his tongue deep, deep into the wetness of his cunt, his nose pressing against his vulva; he would eat him out loudly, mouth wide open, all the while moaning eagerly, stroking his hips, gasping for air in huge gulps, looking up into his eyes, his dark hair mussled, fuck, how that would feel--

His eyes roll back into his head, his lips part, sucking the air in with a sharp rasp.

Then Wilson would slide his fingers, those long, elegant surgeon’s fingers inside his vagina, over his pubic bone, curling them, stretching, pressing, searching for that spot--

_Yes oh fucking God yes_

His cock is throbbing, fully erect now, pointing straight upwards, he grasps it and squeezes it and God how good that feels; and he does stop for a second to marvel at how ridiculous this is, but he doesn’t care anymore.

Then Wilson would violently force his legs apart, wrap himself around his body like he wrapped himself around his wives, whispering the same things he had whispered to them--

(He hasn’t realised yet that males are so… _broad,_  all shoulders and trapezius and chest and muscular arms.)

If he was a woman, he’d let Wilson penetrate him, he’d _beg_ him to penetrate him, he’d lift his hips and cover Wilson’s cock in slippery, thick wetness as he’d take him into himself, and he’d unfold for him, and he can’t imagine how that would feel like, to be filled by his cock, but he thinks it would drive him mad, Wilson fitting into him so perfectly, so naturally, he has no doubts that he would come immediately, but it would be okay, because he could come over and over and over around him--

_Oh God_

And he watches as a drop flows from his slit, pulling a thin line of pre-cum as it drips, and in the back of his mind he’s fascinated by his own body, how powerfully it reacts to a mere fantasy.

Yeah, Wilson would fuck him, stroking and rubbing him from the inside, slapping his hips against his, he would moan and pant and his cheeks would flush and he’d stare down at him with almost wondering lust, sliding in and out of him so easily, so pleasurably, he would be heavy and hard on top of him, so excruciatingly beautiful--

But he’s not a woman, and the only thing that is possible--

 _I want to fuck you,_ he growls, Wilson’s voice in his ear, he whispers it into Wilson’s ear, dropping onto his knees know, too far gone to recognize the pain, one forearm pressed against the mirror, the glass cold against his hairline, eyeing his reflection, but it’s not himself whom he sees.

He’s not a woman.

His breathing is embarrassingly heavy, his chest is flushed, not just his face.

He imagines the sight of Wilson kneeling in front of him, glancing up at him with lustful gaze, pleading him to let him suck him, and he permits it, and he sees Wilson’s warm, rosy lips wrapped tightly around the head of his cock, soft, pink tongue hungrily lapping up the moisture there.

His fist is moving in his lap, slowly, drawing it out, his cock is darkened and swollen as it appears and disappears above his tightened fist, stream of sweat on his temple.

In his mind the roles are reversed this time, in his mind he can be free, he can be anything he wants, he can get everything he wants; and he’s lying on top of Wilson, kissing him, pushing his tongue in his sweet, sweet mouth, and Wilson eagerly twines his tongue around his.

In his mind this time Wilson is the female; and he’s kissing Wilson’s collarbones, his neck without a prominent Adam's apple, his face… God, his face. Long eyelashes casting shadows on large, dark, glistening eyes. He lets his fingers brush the long, auburn locks away from his temples, thick, neatly formed eyebrows. Smooth throat, shoulders narrower, hips wider, the perfect hourglass shape of the body he slides his hands along. Slender arms wrap themselves around his waist, elegantly painted fingernails scratch his back; and Wilson’s skin, his flawless, pale skin, so incredibly silky, sprayed with faint freckles, tasting like sin under his tongue… He’d map Wilson’s breasts though his bra, squeezing, stroking, freeing them one after another, sucking on one pointed little nipple, lavishing, tasting the other; and Wilson would tug at his hair, moaning encouragingly with closed eyes, voice more high-pitched, legs invitingly spreading, back arching--

His free hand is stroking his own chest, his own waist, his own hips, sliding down to cup his balls, his grunt of pleasure dampening the mirror.

He would slip his fingers under that pretty, curved waist, those perfect, round buttocks. Yes, he would bury his head in between Wilson’s long, shapely legs, he would run his fingers through the nicely trimmed hair there, and Wilson would be yielding, trembling, already soaking wet for him, he would smell wonderful--

He would want him to feel good, he’d suckle on his clit, and Wilson would groan and tremble, legs tensing, hips thrusting, and he would smear the wetness on Wilson’s genitals, rubbing his tongue along the folds of his labia, he’d make him come again and again, swallowing the tremors of his orgasms with his mouth wide open, and Wilson would call out his name over and over, God, that would be wonderful, he would take him so high--

Movements becoming frantic, going for it now, shamelessly fantasizing, not even caring what of, it doesn't matter whether they are female or male, the only thing that matters is Wilson’s body, Wilson’s ecstasy.

He would turn Wilson over then, he would lick his buttocks, eat his pussy from behind, then plunge his tongue into his tight little asshole; and Wilson would be keening in his throat, arching his back to give him better access--

And he’s buried deep inside of Wilson, on their knees, towering above him, driving into him, watching Wilson's back, Wilson's broad shoulders, his narrow hips, muscles rippling under his skin, and Wilson throws his head back, whimpering, begging him in a deep, broken voice to fuck him harder, and he watches Wilson’s pleasure-twisted face in the mirror, he watches their bodies rocking back and forth with the force of his thrusts, and he doesn’t even care anymore whether Wilson is female or male, doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter at all when Wilson yells _“House--!”_ and comes violently in his stroking hand--

God, he’s never flied so high before, and his whole body is quivering in sudden, forceful release, his grunts are tearing his lungs.

Sitting back on his heels. Thick, white stripes streaming off the mirror, his cock in his hand, semen drying on his skin, the remnants of his orgasm still in his mind. He presses his forehead against the mirror, spots of fog condensing on the lips of his reflection with his damp panting.

He’s been watching his own face the whole time.

No, he really wouldn’t care, about being sick, being miserable. About anything.

If only he had--


End file.
